Chapter 14 #2
What was wrong with her today! Alex regretted her lapse of intelligence and temper. “Of course, how could I have forgotten?” she murmured. Again.
Murad gripped her wrist in warning.
Zoe strutted over to another peephole. “Well, I am here to see if he is as handsome as they say he is.” She darted a sly look at Alex and peered through her peephole.
“They say he stands a full head taller than everyone. One of the slaves who helped him bathe today said his body is as hard as a rock—every single inch.” Zoe laughed slyly.
“She said he is huge, the biggest she has ever seen.”
Alex flamed. She stared at the laughing Zoe, unable to think of a single thing to say.
“But a man’s penis doesn’t interest you, now does it, Zohara?”
“Lilli Zoe,” Fatima said softly. “Do not fight with your sister.”
Zoe blinked with false innocence at her mother-in-law. “But, Lilli Fatima, I am only teasing my little sister who is so shy about sex! Surely you have seen a man’s penis before, sister dear?”
Alex wanted to say something, anything, but Murad pinched her waist, hard. She closed her mouth.
“Surely your poor dead first husband wasn’t shy. Surely he was manly. You know, the diplomat on Gibraltar who died when you were traveling to join him.” Zoe still smiled, staring at Alex.
Alex wet her lips. “Unlike some women, when I give myself to a man in passion, it is also with love.”
Zoe understood and her eyes turned pitch black.
Lilli Fatima clapped her hands, her plump face wearing a soft, benevolent expression.
“Zohara’s sentiments are wonderful, and that is why, of course, she will soon go to her husband and please him the way every wife should.
” She turned her hopeful eyes on Alex. “My son adores you. And he is such a good man. You are so strong, Zohara, surely you will give him the son and heir he deserves.”
Alex averted her eyes. “Yes,” she murmured.
“Tell me one thing, Zohara,” Zoe snapped. “Which ship were you on when our corsairs seized it?”
“Which ship?” Alex asked. “A British merchantman, of course.”
“I do not recall a British merchantman as a prize last year.”
“Then your memory is very poor,” Alex said dryly.
A commotion in the greeting hall made all the women turn to their peepholes. Alex forgot about Zoe’s dangerous questions. Xavier Blackwell was striding across the room.
Ohmygod. Her heart skidded to a stop. She lost the ability to breathe. He was such a magnificent sight. And he emanated authority, power, and virility. It was almost impossible to believe that he was a captive.
Zoe said, hushed, “Oh my. He is a beautiful man. Big and strong. How I wish he were my slave. Oh my. He is probably a bull in bed.”
Alex whirled. Lust was written all over Zoe’s face. It infuriated her. It worried her.
Mildly Fatima said, “Come, Zoe, he will never be your slave. Hopefully he will be a rais for ray husband.”
Zoe was too involved in spying, and she did not reply.
Alex stared at Zoe, accutely aware of just how sultry and seductive the other woman was. But she and Blackwell would never meet. Would they?
Had Alex not found a way to meet him?
Alex turned back to the hole in the wall, resolved to ignore Zoe, who wished only to provoke her. Blackwell was exchanging pleasantries with Farouk. And suddenly his head lifted, his gaze jerking upward, away from Farouk—directly toward the wall behind which Alex was concealed.
The bashaw entered the hall, smiling broadly.
His outermost gilet was crimson silk, heavily embroidered with pearls and gold thread, and the floor-length sleeves flowed about him.
He allowed various subjects to kiss his beringed hands, and finally he approached Xavier.
Xavier also kissed the proffered hand. He was aware of the fact that he was perspiring slightly and that the bashaw wore a thick, cloyingly sweet scent.
The bashaw threw his arm around Xavier and they moved to one end of the heavily laden table. “I trust you have passed a pleasant night?”
“My room is comfortable, yes, I have,” Xavier lied. He had hardly slept a wink since setting foot in Tripoli.
“How pleased I am. Come, let us sit down, eat, drink,” the bashaw said expansively.
Xavier sat down beside the king of Tripoli. He nodded at the bashaw’s son, seated opposite him. Jovar and Farouk also sat at the same end of the table with the bashaw, Jebal, and Xavier. The Scot smiled at Xavier. It was a menacing smile, and Xavier ignored it.
Slaves clad in billowing trousers and short vests began piling up various roasted fishes, curried and baked lambs, and spicy, marinated vegetables upon their plates.
Aqua vitae and coffee began to flow freely.
The bashaw’s guests conversed and laughed, but everyone kept glancing at Xavier.
One and all knew exactly why he was present.
Xavier could not eat—even though this might be his very last meal. He sipped the potently brewed, thickly black, heavily sugared coffee. His adrenaline, already flowing, increased. He would need all of his wits about him now.
His gaze moved of its own accord to the far wall. And he was almost certain that he felt her eyes upon him.
Xavier was familiar with the Moslem custom of having their women observe occasions like this from hidden rooms. Was Alexandra watching him from a secret chamber?
He wished she were not present. Not because her presence was a distraction, which it was, but for her own sake—he wished to spare her any unpleasantness.
Two images assailed him simultaneously. The bloodstained stone beheading block in a sunny town square, and her tearstained face behind iron prison bars.
Very grim and very disturbed, Xavier shook himself free of his morbid fantasies.
“How are my men?” he asked Jovar.
“They are complaining—all captives complain.” Jovar smiled. His pale blue eyes were cool.
“Are they still detained in the bagnio?” Xavier had been told his men were in prison, which in Tripoli was called the bagnio—even though it had nothing to do with Tripoli’s common baths.
Jovar nodded. “Do not fret. At least they live.” Jovar’s smile flashed. “They are fed and watered and they are allowed an hour of exercise every day,” he said. His eyes glinted.
“Like dogs,” Xavier commented, hiding his rising fury.
“Like the American dogs that they are,” Jovar replied calmly.
“At least they are not Scot snakes,” Xavier said as dispassionately.
Jovar jumped to his feet, drawing his long dagger. “Get up, dog,” he growled.
Xavier was also on his feet, but he had no weapon, so he stood lightly, tensed, ready to fight.
The bashaw, Jebal, and Farouk stood instantly, while soldiers stepped forward, their hands going to the hilts of their scimitars. “Stop this at once.” the bashaw cried, enraged. “Jovar, sit!”
Jovar stared at Xavier with blazing eyes, then, slowly, he sat.
The bashaw breathed. He smiled at Xavier. “Rais Blackwell, forgive my impudent, stupid servant. He shall be punished for his lack of wits and manners, have no fear.”
Xavier glanced at Jovar, who was seething and flushed. “There is no harm done.”
“How generous you are. Please, sit, eat.” The bashaw sat back down. Everyone sat, including Xavier.
“So.” Farouk smiled. “Have you decided to join us, Rais Blackwell?”
All conversation abruptly stopped. Xavier shifted, wishing it were less warm in the room. He felt all eyes turn upon him. “I have been put in a very difficult situation.” Xavier began. “I am a patriotic man. Nevertheless, I am vastly honored by your faith in me.”
“But surely you understand the alternatives?” Farouk persisted.
Jovar leaned forward. His eyes gleamed.
“I need more time,” Xavier said calmly. “To give up my faith, my country, my allegiance, I need to think very carefully. This is a very difficult decision to make.”
“Two days is plenty of time in which to think,” Jovar interrupted. Anticipation shone in his eyes.
“I have many responsibilities at home,” Xavier said.
“Here you will have many new responsibilities. We will give you a healthy, beautiful young wife, we will build you a big, new home.” Farouk smiled, but it did not reach his eyes.
The bashaw stood up. All heads swiveled toward him. “You are with us or you are against us,” he said, his eyes dark now with building anger. “You are a strong, clever man, Rais Blackwell. What decision is there to make? You have no choice.”
Xavier said nothing. He wondered if he was about to lose his life.
“I will even offer you more than I have ever offered any rais, including Jovar—who is the admiral of my navy,” the bashaw said abruptly. “I will give you gold beyond your wildest dreams.”
Jovar turned white beneath his perpetual sunburn. His blond hair was sticking to his forehead.
“Fifty percent,” the bashaw said. His black eyes gleamed. He stared Xavier down. “Half of every prize. The first half,” the bashaw said. “That is how badly I want you, Rais Blackwell.”
Xavier slowly rose to his feet. “I am flattered,” he lied.
He stared at the bashaw, who was nothing more than a thief and a pirate—who had murdered his own father and brother to take power for himself.
Who was, ultimately, responsible for Robert’s death.
Xavier hated him far more than he hated Jovar or Farouk.
The bashaw began to smile. “So we agree.”
“No,” Xavier said. He would not even consider a double cross. He was gambling now, that they would not kill him, in the hopes that he would ultimately change his mind. “No.”
The bashaw gaped. Jovar and Jebal were also standing—everyone was standing, and every man in the room except for the slaves had his hand upon his dagger or his scimitar.
“What?!” the bashaw roared. “You dare to refuse me?!”
“I refuse you,” Xavier said. His hand had also automatically crept to his hip—but he had no weapon sheathed there. His pulse was pounding; he tasted fear.
The bashaw turned red. He sputtered with rage—and then he pointed at Xavier. “Give me blood—his blood—all of it!” And somewhere not too far away, a woman screamed.
“No!”